


words, in a real dark

by snowdarkred



Category: West Wing
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Pragmatic Idealism, Writers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 15:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowdarkred/pseuds/snowdarkred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's power in silence as well as in words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	words, in a real dark

**Author's Note:**

> You can stroke people with words.  
> F. Scott Fitzgerald
> 
> &
> 
> In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.  
> F. Scott Fitzgerald

There’s power in silence as well as in words; a well-placed pause can bring tears to someone’s eyes or have them on their feet with rage. There’s power in words as well as silence; when weaponized, they can make someone quiver in fear and anticipation. 

 

Toby lives in the dark spaces between words, in the syllables that fade into nothing. He lurks around the edges, shaping them from the corners, prodding them into place. He mutters fragments to himself, tasting them carefully. Some he allows to age, to stand, while others are mercilessly scratched from the page with a red pen. 

 

Sam is too bright for this line of work -- a white page rather than black ink. His idealism shines through every carefully constructed sentence, every precisely timed quote. The words gather to him, drawn like moths, and the shadows he casts are deeper than Toby can tread, deeper than he can swim.

 

He’s not envious of his deputy. He just wishes he were a little less quick, a little less brilliant. A little less idealistic. A little less naive. But if he were any of those things, he wouldn’t be Sam Seaborn.

 

\---

 

It’s raining. Toby watches Sam watch the water trail down the windows. They have writing to do, work to finish, but they’re caught in a moment of contemplation. Sam contemplates the meaning of the universe. Toby contemplates the curve of Sam’s throat. 

 

Then Sam blinks and looks down, and the moment is broken. Toby is the only one still caught, and when Sam glances up at him, briefly, he can’t bring himself to escape.

 

\---

 

Toby lives in his silences, in the valleys of his failures and disappointments. He draws the darkness around him, drowning himself in his shortcomings, real and imagined. He buries himself under the weight of others’ idealism, because if he surrounds himself with brighter lights, he can ignore the stubborn glimmer still nestled in his own breast. 

 

Sam is a force of nature, a magnet, a poorly constructed metaphor that makes Toby reach for his school master’s pen. He has a way of drawing people out and getting them to argue with him, to think on their feet and show their hopes for the future. Even if they would have sworn up and down that they didn’t have any. 

 

We can change the world, Sam says, pride and determination in the curve of his smile. We can shift the universe on its axis, turn the tide.

 

Maybe, Toby says, but first we have to finish this draft for the summit. 

 

\---

 

Sam’s mouth is soft, and his skin is smooth, and the way he goes still and quiet when he comes takes Toby’s breath away. It’s that quiet that settles Toby’s pounding heart, that quiet that gives him the courage to wrap both arms around Sam’s body and pull him forward, until every part of them is touching. Toby closes his eyes in that silence and presses his face to the dip of Sam’s shoulder.


End file.
